Where there is a will, there is a way. If there is a chance in a

Host: The city was sinking into twilight, a slow bleed of amber fading into violet, the last light clinging to the windows of half-asleep buildings. In an old warehouse turned studio, the air was thick with the smell of paint, coffee, and dust — the perfume of unfinished dreams. Jack stood near a cracked window, cigarette smoke curling around his silhouette, while Jeeny knelt on the floor, surrounded by half-torn canvases.

A small radio hummed near them, a familiar voice echoing through static — “Where there is a will, there is a way. If there is a chance in a million that you can do something, anything, to keep what you want from ending, do it. Pry the door open or, if need be, wedge your foot in that door and keep it open.” The voice belonged to Pauline Kael, once the fiery critic who never stopped believing in the human will to create.

The radio clicked off. The room fell silent except for the faint dripping of a leaky pipe.

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks — that will isn’t just a word, it’s the thing that keeps the light on when everything else goes dark.”

Jack: “You and your optimism, Jeeny. You think will can substitute for reality? You can have all the will in the world, but it won’t stop a door from slamming shut if someone stronger’s holding it closed.”

Host: The smoke hung between them like a curtain, glowing faintly in the half-light. Jeeny rose slowly, wiping her paint-streaked hands on her jeans. Her eyes, dark and alive, burned against Jack’s cold grey stare.

Jeeny: “But that’s the whole point of what she said — pry the door open, wedge your foot in. Don’t wait for permission. You think anyone ever got anywhere by asking politely to enter?”

Jack: “You sound like you’re auditioning for a motivational speech. The world doesn’t care about your will, Jeeny. It crushes it. You ever watch people fight for something with everything they’ve got — and lose anyway?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But I’ve also seen people win when they shouldn’t have. That’s the difference — the ones who refuse to stop trying, even when logic says they should.”

Host: The wind pushed through the cracked window, scattering a few sheets of sketch paper across the floor. Jeeny chased one, catching it with a small laugh, but her eyes glistened with something that wasn’t amusement — something raw.

Jeeny: “Remember that old violin maker we met last year? The one who lost his workshop in the fire? He rebuilt everything — by hand, from scraps — because he refused to stop creating. He said, ‘If I can’t have my past, I’ll carve a new one.’ That’s will, Jack. That’s the way.”

Jack: “And what about the painter who overdosed two blocks from here last month? He had will too, Jeeny. He worked three jobs just to buy his materials, and he still died broke and invisible. You want to romanticize struggle? Fine. But will doesn’t guarantee survival.”

Jeeny: “No, it doesn’t. But it gives meaning to survival. It turns endurance into creation. If he fought till the end, he still lived as himself. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “No, but it pays the soul.”

Host: The light from a single lamp flickered, throwing their shadows long across the concrete. The studio felt like a cathedral of defiance — walls scarred by failure, but filled with traces of persistence.

Jack: “You think I haven’t tried? You think I haven’t wedged my foot in every door I’ve found? You know how many rejections I’ve eaten, Jeeny? Fifty? A hundred? I kept the door open so long, it slammed on me anyway. Will doesn’t always make a way — sometimes it just makes a bruise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that bruise is proof you’re still alive. Maybe it’s not about the door staying open — maybe it’s about showing it can be fought.”

Jack: “You really believe that fighting without winning means something?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because not fighting means you’ve already lost.”

Host: The rain began outside — slow, uncertain at first, then turning to a steady rhythm, like the pulse of a weary city. Jeeny walked toward Jack, her bare feet silent against the cold floor.

Jeeny: “Do you know who Pauline Kael was?”

Jack: “A film critic, right? One of those who tore apart everyone’s dreams for a living.”

Jeeny: “No. She defended dreams. She said, ‘In the arts, the critic is the only independent voice left.’ She fought studios, producers, even directors — because she believed in vision. She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t safe. But she kept her foot in the door — for everyone who came after. That’s what will looks like. It’s not clean. It’s bloody and stubborn and sometimes lonely.”

Jack: “You’re comparing your art to hers?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m comparing spirit. You quit before the fight even starts, and you call it realism. I call it surrender.”

Jack: “I call it survival.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Survival is living without a pulse. Will is what makes you fight to feel your own heartbeat again.”

Host: The tension snapped like a stretched wire. Jack turned, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. His voice dropped low, heavy with years of exhaustion.

Jack: “You think I don’t feel it? That hunger to keep going? You think I haven’t stayed up nights painting until my hands cramped, just to throw it all out in the morning? You talk about keeping the door open — sometimes, Jeeny, the door doesn’t even exist. You’re just standing in front of a wall pretending it’s there.”

Jeeny: “Then build one.”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “If the door doesn’t exist — build one. That’s the will she’s talking about. You think Thomas Edison waited for someone to hand him a door? He failed thousands of times and still made light. You think Helen Keller waited for the world to open for her? She pried it open without sight or sound.”

Jack: “You’re comparing art to miracles.”

Jeeny: “They’re the same thing, Jack. They both start with someone refusing to stop believing in the impossible.”

Host: The rain beat harder now, drumming against the windows like applause or warning — it was hard to tell which. Jeeny’s voice shook, but it carried that old fire that refused to burn out.

Jeeny: “You know what your problem is? You mistake exhaustion for truth. You think because you’ve failed, that’s proof it can’t be done. But Pauline Kael, she was talking to people like you — people who forgot that resistance isn’t about success. It’s about refusing the end.”

Jack: “And what if the end’s already here?”

Jeeny: “Then you hold the damn door open until it breaks your bones.”

Host: Silence. A long, deep one. The only sound was the soft hiss of the rain and the uneven beat of two hearts still learning how to keep rhythm.

Jack’s eyes dropped. His hand brushed a nearby canvas, where an unfinished portrait stared back at him — a self-portrait, maybe, or a ghost of who he used to be.

Jack: “You always make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s never easy. But it’s possible. And that’s enough.”

Jack: “You really think one act of will can change a life?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it changed mine.”

Host: Jack looked up. Her words hung in the air, soft but unshakable. Jeeny’s face caught the faint glow of the lamp, her eyes wet, but bright — the way people look when they’ve already made peace with the struggle.

Jeeny: “You remember when I was going to quit the collective last year? When I said I was done painting because no one cared?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “You told me to send my work anyway. I didn’t believe it mattered. But that gallery picked one of my pieces. That one chance — that was my million-to-one. And it changed everything. You gave me that will, Jack. You don’t even see it, but you live by it.”

Jack: “I guess I forgot.”

Jeeny: “Then remember.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a gentle mist that caught the streetlights like floating silver dust. Jack exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing for the first time all night.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the world keeps closing doors because it’s testing who really wants in.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe the bruises we get are proof that we tried.”

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in that — when I was younger. I used to think if I wanted something badly enough, I could claw my way to it. Somewhere along the line, I stopped believing. Maybe I should’ve kept my foot in the door.”

Jeeny: “It’s never too late to wedge it back in.”

Host: They both smiled then — tired, broken smiles, but real. The kind of smiles born from pain that finally found meaning.

Jack reached for a brush on the table. He dipped it into a streak of blue and began to paint — slow, deliberate strokes against a blank canvas.

Jeeny watched, silent, her eyes soft with something close to pride.

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two figures surrounded by the warm hum of defiance, by light returning to a forgotten space. The rain outside eased into silence. The world, for a brief heartbeat, seemed to breathe again.

On the canvas, the first lines of something new began to take shape.

And in the air, Pauline Kael’s words lingered — no longer an echo, but a pulse:
“Pry the door open or, if need be, wedge your foot in that door and keep it open.”

Because somewhere between will and way, between loss and persistence, Jack and Jeeny had found it — not an open door, but the strength to build one.